Joker's Date Series Date 1 The Hippie's Date
by Tinhuviel
Summary: Joker decides he wants some free lovin'.


**THE HIPPIE'S DATE**

"Groove is in the heart," he sang, sitting on the roof of the tall building, overlooking Gotham. "Groove is in the hea-a-art. DJ Soul is on a roll, I've been told he can't be sold, he's not vicious or malicious, just de-lovely and delicious….. Hm. Doesn't sound like my type at _all. _But, groove _is_ in the heart."

The Joker stood from his perch and leaned far over the edge of the building, purveying his territory like a cat. The wind of Winter blew through his greasy green hair, chilling him to a point. Usually, he didn't feel the weather like other people. He ignored it. "And the heart is restless this de-lovely night. The heart craves…_hemp_."

And with that, the Joker tumbled from the top of the building, just falling short of hitting the sidewalk below before he was tugged upward once again by a thin bungee cord attached to his suspenders. He dangled there like a dying yo-yo for a few minutes before slicing through the life line and landing on his feet in front of a tad-passed-middle-aged couple, who were both startled and affronted by the clown blocking their way.

"Oh, _do excuse me_ if I interrupted your classy night out," the Joker said, his voice a mocking growl.

"I know who you are," the man said. "Leave us alone or I'll call the cops. I have a cell phone."

"What? One of those Jitterbugs with the buttons the size of quarters so you can see the numbers, old man? Why don't I open up your torsos to see what fancy food you just wasted $500 on?" The Joker almost magically presented the couple with two large daggers. "Fortunately I'm ambidextrous, so I can do you both simultaneousleeee."

The Joker lunged forward with the knives and the couple both squealed with fright, running off into the dark Gotham night in separate directions. The old man dropped his phone, which the Joker picked up to examine. He snorted. If there was one thing the Joker found unceasingly hilarious, it was how sociopaths like himself knew humanity so well. He flipped the Jitterbug into the air, acting like he was going to catch it on its way back down. Instead, he batted it with the handle of one of the daggers, laughing as it smashed into the wall of the building he'd just dropped down from.

Turning away from the ruined phone, the Joker made his way to a dance club that wasn't far at all from his home. It was one of those retro places, catering to the hemp wearing, hemp smoking crowd, folks into psychedelic music of yesterday and today, and psychedelic substances of any space-time continuum. It was called The Kaleidoscope and the Joker found it to be a deeee-lightful place, despite the human stink. The pot and Nag Champa covered that up quite nicely most all the time, he'd found.

He walked into the muted lighting and flashy Lava Lamp projections and made his way to the bar. The Dukes of Stratosphear blasted over the sound system, a song called "My Love Explodes." The Joker was old enough to remember and appreciate the alter-egos involved in the Dukes of Stratosphear. Few people knew who they really were, just like the Joker himself. And they dressed very….oddly….just like the Joker himself. The Joker could have been one of Dukes of Stratosphear if time and location had been to his advantage. But who would have been the Joker, then? No, everything always works out for the best. Let those clever British men have their fun and let the Joker have his. The fun he was looking for tonight was a date with a pretty Hippie chick. Date Night was nothing if not fraught with variety.

He sidled up to this pretty young thing in a print dirndl and hemp necklace. She had straight dirty blonde hair streaming out from below her burgundy tam that reached to her hips. Her skin was the shade of sea sand at sundown and her eyes were two aquamarine pools of loveliness. Deciding that this young third generation Hippie was just his type, the Joker softened his tone just enough to out-volume the music of the Dukes, and he murmured into her ear, "My love explodes in diamonds and pearls for you, yes you."

She smiled and turned her head to meet his unflinching gaze. Her smile never faltered. "Love the make-up, dude. And why would your love explode for me? You don't even know me."

At first, the Joker was taken aback by the Hippie chick's apparent non-reaction to his rather unusual face. He was almost surprised to the point of unresponsiveness, but he forced himself beyond that and said, "Well…. Not yet, I don't, but I'm a good judge of character and my love is all about….explosions, trust-t me, Love-cup." He licked his red lips slowly, to further communicate his intentions and honesty. "What say let's ditch this den of depravity and let me show you my _etchings_?"

"On one condition: that you tell me why a handsome Goth such as yourself decided to come to the Kaleidoscope."

_Ah,_ the Joker thought. _That would explain it. She thinks I'm some kind of Goth guy or Emo kid. Silly girl. _And the Joker chuckled to himself. The Joker's own thoughts often amused him, especially if they manifested into reality, like many of his more devilish plans. "Oh, have no fear, Buttermuffin. Before this night is over with, you'll hear alllll about it."

He snaked his left arm around the Hippie chick's slender waist. "Tell me your name, Chiclet," he said, his voice never losing that edge of dangerous humour that always threatened to spill over into something deadly.

"It's Edna, of all things, but I like to be called Springtime, or just Spring. How 'bout you?"

"Well…. I could always be the Autumn to your Spring, the fall to your rising. You know how everything just has to end."

"But they always begin again, never forget that."

"Maddening isn't it?"

Spring laughed. "You like to joke around, don't you? But you never told me your name."

"You could always call meeeeee….Joker."

"Okay, Joker it is!"

"So, how about those etchings, Springtime in the Winter?"

"Lead the way, Mr. Joker Man."

They sauntered down the street, enjoying the icy wind and the almost-deserted sidewalk. Spring nestled against the Joker with a trusting ease, seeking protection from the weather from his body warmth. He liked her willingness to accept him as he was. She made him feel almost sane and he liked her for that. The Joker considered sparing Springtime his usual story of the scars and just trying to enjoy what promised to be a really nice night.

"Y'know, Steve Miller wrote a song called 'Joker,'" Spring said as they walked.

"You're too young to know that," the Joker chided, nuzzling the Hippie's swan-like throat and enjoying the patchouli scent he knew he'd find there.

"I'm too young to be a Hippie, too, but it doesn't stop me from being one and enjoying good music, no matter what era it's from."

"So is that my theme song, now that you've named me Joker?" And the Joker began to sing _a capella. _ "Some people call me the space cowboy, some call me the gangster of lo-ove. Some people call me Maurrrrrrice,"

And Spring whistled, right in time.

"'Cos I speak of the Pompatus of love."

Genuinely delighted, Springtime hugged herself tighter to the Joker and laughed that throaty laugh a woman often gets when she finds herself aroused. They continued their stroll through Gotham's night until the Joker and Spring reached their destination, a top floor apartment that was presumed empty by the owner of the building, the Joker held open the door like a perfect gentlemen and allowed Springtime into his world.

"Nice pad," she said, admiring de-faced dollar bills that were tacked randomly all over the walls. "And the dough? Yeah, I can really grok the message."

The Joker cocked his head, a little surprised by her words. He'd never thought of sending a message with "Joker-fication" of George Washington. He liked to send messages by way of other means than money, usually involving something sharp or incendiary. The money he didn't use to buy his tools of the trade, he nailed to the walls of whatever room he'd decided to inhabit at the time.

"Grok, you say? And that means ---?"

"Y'know, understand on a deep kinda level. Associate with. To share the same reality, dig? This whole material, commercialized world we live in…it's a joke, really."

"I like you, Springtime. I do, yes, I really do. That grok thing, that's a good word for a lot of expression. That's….peachy keennnn."

Spring laughed merrily and fell back on the Joker's modest bed, bouncing a little with the impact. "So, show me these etchings of yours."

"Ah, those," the Joker said, remembering the etchings he was actually going to show her. He was going to accompany their revelation with the story of how they were _etched_.

And then it happened. Spring did the one thing that would guarantee the Joker showing her his etchings. "Or, better yet, take off that ridiculous make-up and those silly prosthetics and come give me a kiss."

The Joker lost his developing affection for Springtime in that single instant, but he didn't show it. No. He wanted this to be special for them both despite Spring's inappropriate comment. "I have a _better_ idea. Why don't I give you a kiss _now_ with all this mysterious make-up on, _then_ show you my etchings?"

Spring lifted her eyes to the ceiling, where she found more Joker-fied dollar bills, then nodded slowly. "Yeah, that's groovy. I think you're cute, even with all that crap on. And the way you talk….it's kinda sexy. Are you originally from Gotham?"

"Funny you should ask," the Joker said, removing his purple coat and bungee harness to reveal an equally purple vest covering a Paisley buttoned shirt and red-and-black-striped suspenders. "I was born in Gotham, but raised elsewhere, where the lilt of language is a bit more dignified-d. But I came back here when I was transported to Arkham."

He waited for a reaction, but not the one he got. Springtime laughed. "The asylum? You're a card!"

"Yes, I am, aren't I? The Joker, actually." And he got more laughter. But the Joker wasn't laughing anymore. All he could think about was Spring's suggestion that he remove his 'silly prosthetics.' Well, some etchings you can't just remove. "So, yes, I've been back in Gotham for a while. A couple of years in Arkham and a couple of years since I…left Arkham."

The Joker sat down beside Spring and touched his nose to hers. "So how about that kiss, Swizzle-stick?"

Springtime wrapped her arms around the Joker's neck and the ensuing kiss began tenuously, with their tongues barely touching before their lips ever had the chance to do so. But, once the lips became involved, the kiss was warm, moist, and seemed to go on forever. Spring was as open with her kisses as she was with her personality, even the ugly bits like the comment that killed her. The Joker felt Spring's fingers spider I his hair as he leaned against her to ease her back on the bed. He always considered himself a fine kisser, but he had to admit that Spring was equal to him in expertise. This single kiss gave him a full erection, just aching to feel Springtime from the inside. It took all his strength to back away from her, but he did.

"That was - - - amazing, Mr. Joker Man!"

"Oh, just Joker will do," he said, his smile stretching out from ear to ear. "But now it's time to see those etchings."

"Forget about them. Kiss me again."

Spring reached out and pulled the Joker to her again, pressing her lips to his. They enjoyed another kiss, this one even more delicious than the first. The Joker felt as though he may explode, but rules are rules and he Joker had a rule: if you insulted him, you really had to die. No. Time for the etchings.

He pulled away from her again. "No, Kitty-litter, it's really time for those etchings."

The Joker pulled a large handkerchief from his breast pocket and turned away from Spring. Rubbing at his face vigourously for a few moments, he turned back around. Springtime's eyes widened. Before her was a very handsome and very disfigured man. The smile he sported under the clown make-up was still there in poorly-healed lines and marred tissue gone awry. Spring was appalled by what she saw and by her previous remarks. How could she have known? But she played it down and tried smooth it all over.

"So that's what you look like under all the Goth goo, then? I knew you were gorgeous."

The Joker pooh-poohed her. "Yes, yes, but what do you think of my _etchings_?"

Spring's face reddened, knowing the Joker meant his scars. She didn't know what to say, really. They were horrible, but not so much so that they were a detriment to the Joker's natural male beauty. Somehow, though, she could tell that he felt that were the ultimate detriment, that they defined him on a level like no other thing in his life.

"I think you're handsome no matter what," Spring whispered, which was probably the worst thing she could have said to the Joker, who took her words as pity. Pity was an untenable emotion in the Joker's world. Pity was something humans did for one another when they considered the object of their pity beneath them. Pity was something that merited derision and death.

"Really now? So, Springtime, do you wanna know how I got these scars?"

"It doesn't matter, not one--"

Almost instantly, the Joker was on Spring, his knife nicking the right corner of her mouth. "Oh, don't interrupt, my little Fruit Cake, especially when the Joker is about to tell such an interesting tale."

He waited in silence until that first, most important tear slid down Spring's cheek and dripped in perfect symmetry onto the blade of his knife. Savouring the imagery of it, the Joker lifted his eyes to a restless sky only he could see. "You see, I was a child of first generation Hippies, the kind who really believed in all that peace, love, and harmony bullshit and lived the Life accordingly. A couple of years after I was born, Mumsie and Pop decided to pack up their goodies and move to a commune somewhere in Australia, where they were promised Life, the Universe, and Everything by a charismatic leader of dumbass Hippies like yourself. They couldn't handle all the crime and anarchy the Gotham of that day had to offer, so they got their passports in order and what meager belongings they had together, and off they flew to a new life Down Under.

"Needless to say, when they got there what they found was not what was touted in the brouchurrrre. The only constant was Mr. Control Freak himself, Jim Jones Junior, the honourable fearless leader of the Hippie Commune. Once his patsies arrived, apparently there was no going back, especially if you had kids because, you see, my little lotus blossom, the children were taken as a sort of insurance that the parents didn't haul ass out of Dodge. The childless couples, if they weren't shot or mangled in some ingenious way, were allowed to leave but without what little they arrived with. I was separated from Mumsie and Pop from the minute we set foot on commune soil and I only saw them from afar from the time I was nearly three until the day we left that hell on Earth. I was twelve and I only ever saw them working in the fields, crying for their lost son and lost freedom. Tears shining under an Australian son carry a particularly lovely rainbow hue to them, just so you know.

"Unlike the other mindless drones Mr. Hippie Commune Man had turned his 'children' into, I protested like a true Hippie. I asked questions like a true Hippie. I rebelled like a _true Hippie_. And do you know what I got for my trouble, my little ray of Springtime sunshine?"

The knife dug in a little deeper and Spring cried a little harder. Something told the Joker that it was as much for the story he was telling as it was from the fear and pain he was inflicting on her. And this made him just a little angrier, despite the fact that the story he told may or may not be true. At the time, it was true for them both.

"Hm? Do you know what that got me? It got me my first lesson in how not to balk the Status Quo, in how anarchy is the only true and decent human way of life there could possibly be. Peace, love, and harmony are by-products of a world gone wrong, terribly-terribly wrong. And do you know what another word for by-product is, my pretty little colon cleanse? Hm? Shit. Feces. You know, crapola. Ass-candy. But let's get back to the story, shall we?

"Mr. Hippie Commune Man brought me before the commune prisoners, making sure that Mumsie and Pop were _front row and center_. He told everyone what a terrible student I had been and how disruptive a voice I'd become in class. He revealed how I still cried for my parents and wept when I saw them in the fields, encouraging laughter from everyone who'd spotted the guns being pointed at their heads or the heads of their children. So I was to be made an example of. I was going to smile despite my grim moods and rebellious behaviour. He took the metal portion of a hoe, which still had some Earth on it, and he rammed it into my mouth.

"'A true lover of the land!' Mr. Hippie Commune Man shouted, working the hoe back and forth, deeper into my jaws with each twist and turn. "'No matter how hard his job may be, his smile will be an inspiration to us all.' I passed out from the pain after that, but I'm sure Mr. Hippie Commune Man had more inspirational words to share with his terrified followers.

"I woke up in a hospital bed, my parents by my side. It had been a week since the _incident-t_, they told me, and they had been ousted from the commune along with their troublesome son shortly after the hoe example had been made. The commune apparently didn't want our kind around any longer. Truth is, they didn't want to pay for my hospital bill, so we were all kicked to the curb. The thing I remember best from those first terrible days is the expression on my parents' faces. It was identical to the one you gave me when you saw me without my Joker face, when you saw that the smile doesn't wash away with everything else. It's an expression that-t I…cannot-t….abid-de.

"A couple of days after I was released from the hospital, my little flip-top head stitched to a fare-thee-well, I killed my parents, cutting their throats open from ear to ear, then giving them smiles just like my own. God forbid people not know we weren't related. We were staying in a run-down motel outside Broken Hill at the time, so it took forever before the authorities came poking around. It was the smell, I'm sure, that prompted the motel man to make the call. They found me sitting between my dead parents watching TV and removing the stitches myself since I didn't know the way back to the hospital and the damned things were itching me like _cra_zy.

"I've been spending the majority of my life in and out of asylums ever since, the latest being the illustrious Arkham until, of course, I decided to check myself out and see what mischief I could get myself into here in the old home town. So far, it's been nothing but one big chuckle after another, especially with that loon the Batman fluttering about the skyline.

"So, tell me true, Apple Dumpling, what do you think of my _etchings_?"

Her voice catching from fright, Springtime said, "I'm s-so.. so sor-rh-hee."

"Why yes, yes you are." And, with that, the Joker sliced into Spring's face, first her left side, then her right, making her a smile identical to his own. He did it so quickly, she didn't even get the chance to scream before he buried his blade through her throat, pinning her to his bed like a collected butterfly.

Springtime's eyes were like two mirrors that drew the Joker in. Even in death they seemed to carry a kind of life of their own. Maybe it was that whole grok thing she'd explained to him. No matter what it was, her cooling stare brought the Joker's unsatisfied arousal back full force.

He cocked his head and stared at her, wondering what it would be like to enter her now. Blood spread out behind her head, hypnotic in its slow insistence. In spite of all his numerous aberrations, the Joker had never been one for necrophilia. It wasn't that he thought it was wrong. In the Joker's world, there were no wrongs or rights. Things just _were_. The Joker just _did. _Life just _was_, and so was death. He'd just never had the opportunity to fuck a dead woman, or a dead man for that matter, before Spring's premature departure from the land of the living. He may never have the chance again, so why…..not?

The Joker slowly lifted Spring's dress up her calves and past her thighs until it rested around her naturally slender waist. Her panties were the simple, white cotton kind. What did some people call them? The Joker sucked a little on is lower lip as he tried to recall. Granny panties, that's what they were. Sexy. The Joker undid his trousers and pulled his cock out of his boxers. Taking a knife, he sliced away Spring's underwear and sat back on his heels to admire the view. She was au natural, like any self-respecting Hippie. He appreciated women who accepted themselves in all their hairy splendour and Spring had been one of those. It was a shame she had to open that stupid mouth of hers and ruin what could have been a lovely evening with a mysterious Goth.

The Joker spread her legs and took himself in hand. She was cooling off quickly, but something told him Spring was still warm inside. Slowly he sank into her and he wasn't disappointed. It was like tumbling into a balmy Springtime morning, moist with dew and promise. The Joker closed his eyes and allowed himself to surrender to the raw sensation of a natural rut with a dead Hippie. Minutes passed with nothing but the sound of the Joker's own low grunts as he moved against the body. Occasionally, he would open his eyes to meet her surprised aquamarine stare and, for some reason, her unresponsiveness turned him on even more. He thrust into Springtime harder and faster, bending over the body to the point of letting his hair brush across her etched face. Until, until, until….stillness, release, _joy_. Once more, Spring was warm, but only for a brief minute or so.

The Joker withdrew his quickly softening member and wiped himself dry on Springtime's dirndl. He doubted anyone would want it anyway after she was found. Well, you never know. Some thrift store may end up selling it to some other Hippie in the name of charity. Hell, maybe some Hippie named Charity would wear it with pride, ignorant of the pools of blood and semen in which the simple dress had been drenched.

Before he'd buttoned all the way up, the Joker had already decided that a relocation was called for. He'd stayed in this new apartment too long anyway and he wasn't feeling very enthusiastic about moving this latest dalliance to the Wayne lanai. He'd know. He always knew. The Joker moved to a modest dresser and sat down in front of the mirror. Studying his face, he focused on the scars. Something to do with them had given him that critical push over the edge. Sometimes he remembered it in technicolour, sometimes he made it up as he went along and, sometimes, he sang while he reapplied his signature war paint.

First the white, in great glorious gobs, spread evenly all over the face and down to the neckline….

"She's a little lighthouse when she

Opens up her huge eyes

And streams of diamonds shoot out

'Til we're wading waist deep in her brilliant love

She's a little lighthouse when she

Opens up her red mouth

And gold word ribbons rope and rodeo

The dark clouds in bouquet above

For how long will this dark age last?

For how long must we wait to learn?

Across the black and fossil ocean vast

I spy love and she doth brightly burn

Love sure lives in the right house."

Then came the dark kohl for the eyes, making them appear even larger and wilder than they actually were, but not by much….

"She's a little lighthouse when she

Opens up her huge mind and

Thoughts descending spears of crystal

Build a Jacob's ladder up to love

She's a little lighthouse

When she opens up her red dress

Show skin of rubber marble

Lit by knowledge and the fireflies above

And can others see this splendid beam?

Or do they navigate in dark?

If you ever want to dock your dream

Well you'll need love to guide your fragile ark

Love sure keeps a bright house

She's a little lighthouse."

The last part demanded silence. The red paint that defined the Joker's eternal smile dictated that he keep his mouth perfectly still so that the scars were outlined just right. The Dukes played on in his mind, though, a fitting tribute to Springtime, his own personal little lighthouse. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and the reflection grinned back nefariously.

©Tracy Angelina Evans

Darth Shriek

15 February, 2009

In memory of Heath Ledger, Prince Conor and the one and only Joker


End file.
